


The Case of Monsters and Music

by CatelaC, EtherDragons, gigiree, WithAWhisper



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 20s/30s aesthetic but the songs are all over the place, Alternate Universe - Mobfell (Undertale), Eventual Smut, F/M, MK is precious and we would all die for him, Reader is ripped straight out of a noir film (and also ripped af), Sans is a Frank Sinatra-esque singer, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, technically a songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatelaC/pseuds/CatelaC, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtherDragons/pseuds/EtherDragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigiree/pseuds/gigiree, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithAWhisper/pseuds/WithAWhisper
Summary: Underneath the skies of New Ebbot, one star shines brighter than most. Plucked from nothing into fame, the one voice that graces radios all around croons its suffering and romance to eager ears, dances to complete abandon to hungry eyes.That's not you.You are the unfortunate Private Eye hired to track down and locate said starlet, and make sure he doesn't cause an uproar in every venue he's supposed to sing at by showing up drunk and half-naked.Sans "Red" the Skeleton is going to be the death of you, eventually.





	1. The Case of the Smiling Skeleton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the song for tonight is: 
> 
> **The Best is Yet to Come**  
>  [ [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/4xoZG3UuPDFEN8djm8mlwo?si=-Mq1AaQ8QWGpbFIa2H1UeQ) || [YouTube](https://youtu.be/rmf1AYgYj6I) ]

It’s a gritty Tuesday, the slime of the city so pervasive, you swear you can feel it clinging on to the edges of your trench coat. You can feel it gumming up the soles of your boots, no matter how much you wipe them on the indoor carpets of the seedy bars you’re frequenting. Comes with the territory, but it doesn’t mean you like it any better than you did six years ago.

It’s the same slime coating your Soul, but that’s what happens when you get in the business you’re in. A disgusting mess of slime. The fact-of-the-matter is that you’re desperate for a case, and you’ve gone and taken the first one that dressed itself all pretty and came to your doorstep.

It’s taken you longer than you’d liked. The case shoulda been easy. Finding a living person’s not that hard, but this sonofvabitch was a slippery one. He’d already managed to evade you more times than you’d like to admit, but you’re not one of the best private eye’s in Ebbot for nothing.

You finally find him in a slightly-nice-on-the-inside establishment called Grillby’s. You knock a little tune on the wooden panel at the back of the dimly-lit restaurant. Twinkle-Twinkle Little Star, as luck would have it. The panel slides open abruptly to reveal a black, wet nose all followed by a fuzzy, white snout.

“Good boy, Lesser Dog. I got a treat for ya.” You laugh, pulling out a dog biscuit from your trouser pockets, slipping it through the opening with relief. The biscuit disappears behind a lapping tongue and a doggy smile. The panel closes just as abruptly, and the door swings open just a crack to let you in.

You can’t help but smile in relief as you sidle in. All too easy if you knew the right folks.

Your ears are suddenly assaulted by friendly, high pitched dog howls and live jazz music. The blare of horns, strumming of a bass and joyful piano all coalesce into a pleasant, warm feeling pooling at the tips of your toes. Almost enough to make you tap. Almost. How the noise hasn’t seeped pass the thin walls, you have no idea, but you’re pretty sure it’s magic.

You keep your focus laser sharp, eyes straining in the dimly lit speakeasy. You catch sight of the bartender, his purple flames reflecting off the dark, shiny wood of the bar. 

Slumped over said bar, is a very burly skeleton surrounded by several empty glasses. His neatly tailored suit is made of fine material. Unfortunately, it’s all wrinkled and out of place on his person.

You can see his ivory fingers now, tapping along to the big band playing up front. His eyes are closed in contemplation as his large skull bobs in careless abandon to the jazz. You’d think a large skeleton couldn’t look so gentle, but he does as red suffuses his cheek bones the more he drinks.

You recognize the gold tooth poking out from his lower jaw, based on the entirely accurate description you’d been given. Bingo. You’ve found your guy, and he’s a mess.

You approach cautiously, removing your trench coat and draping it skillfully over your arm as you walk. There’s no sense in causing even more alarm with your (slightly) dramatic sense of style. Your footsteps are despairingly loud on the black, glittering tiles but you keep steady, even as his large head swivels in your direction.

You keep your expression polite. Neutral. A small smile curls up the edges of your mouth and you keep your body language open and curious.

“heya doll...what’s a pretty face like you doin’ in a place like this?” He greets you as if you were an old friend. His rolling baritone is warm, seeping deep into your bones and giving a feeling of comfort. Although, there’s something altogether too sharp in his expression for you to let your guard down.

“I’m looking for one Sans the Skeleton? Goes by Red or Sansy, if some folk are to be believed. Would you know where to find him?” You try and flutter your eyelashes for good measure, inwardly wincing at the embarrassment that writhes in your gut.

You’re almost sure you look like an idiot. Still you remember your employer’s advice. Sans has soft spot for flirty women. 

He blinks a bit slowly at you, his smile falling a bit.

“you okay there sweetheart? got something in yer eye or what?

You feel your embarrassment rise up and grab your throat in a choke hold. You cough a bit, and roll your shoulders in a shrug carefully calculated to exude your usual gravitas.

“Uh...no...I’m just, honestly looking for Sans.”

“well, lucky for you doll, i may just know where the sucker is.” He turns fully towards you, his stool squeaking with the effort. His smile grows indolent as he leans back, and you swear to god, he looks oddly intimidating in this smoke-riddled, dimly lit bar. “but it depends on who’s asking?”

You don’t give him a response, instead tapping your foot to the tune of your own irritation. He laughs.

“smokes, you’re a stubborn one. alright. you found me.” He slaps his hands on his knees, and rises from his chair, making it looks like he’s Atlas carrying the weight of the world. (Honestly, the heaviest thing he’s probably carrying right now is his ego, you think.)

Ah...he’s a bit taller than you expected. You don’t like this. This might further complicate retrieval and extraction of the target.

He calls to the bartender to put the last drink on his tab. You’re not really paying all that much attention. You just need to get Sans back to his brother, mostly unharmed. But you’ve learned the hard way. This target’s skittish. Lazy and prone to playing games if he’s on to someone. There’s no time for games.

You’re about to speak up, when you’re silenced by a long, bony finger pressing up against your lips.

“look...honey doll, you’ll get your reward. no hassling. no bargaining. let’s just go have some fun.” He snakes one arm around your waist, and you find yourself having to resist the urge to toss him across the room.

You give him what you hope is a convincing smile.

“Lead the way, big guy.”

* * *

 

You suck in the rose-scented air with big, gulping breaths. Your chest had felt constricted for all of one microsecond while traveling through the void, but it had been one microsecond too long. Your shoulders rise, straining a bit against the dark suspenders that hold up your slacks, and you try to chase away the claustrophobia with more air.

You notice through your watery gaze that you’ve been transported to a hotel room of some sort, lavishly decorated with a four-poster bed and cherry wood furniture. Gauzy curtains frame the window, and you can make out the orange glow of a setting sun, reminding you that time is of the essence.

“sorry, kid. shoulda warned ya. short cuts can make you breathless, just like your smile does to me.” He grins at you, keeping a supportive arm around you as you regain your bearings.

“A warning would have been nice.” You snap, and he flinches a bit, before letting you go.

“yeesh. sorry bud. next time.”

You hope to god there isn’t a next time, although you don’t really have your pick of the litter when it comes to these jobs.

Don’t snap just yet, you chide yourself. Get him vulnerable.

You have one more breath, and turn to look at Sans. To your dawning horror, the idiot’s already taken off his nice suit jacket and draped it over a stuffy armchair. You resist the urge to scream as he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“alright, buddy. looks like i’m gonna make your day.” He says blithely, eyes half lidded and glowing crimson as he fully takes in your form. He’s openly leering. 

Well, shit. Your hand is curling into a fist. Relax. Just explain yourself.

“I’m not here for —"

“it’s fine. don’t be shy, sweetheart. don’t think i haven’t see you stalking around my favorite bars. you found me. it’s only fair that I reward the effort. couldn’t have been easy. takes some really savvy wits to do that.”

You can only gape in embarrassment as the final button is loosened, and there he stands in all his pearly-boned glory. He really is just a skeleton, broad, but not big enough to account for the way his suit had filled out earlier.

Magic. Ugh. Messing with your head since good old ‘06.

“Well...I, uh…I’m not a stalker.”

“like hell ya aren’t. like what you see?” He grins, his fingers moving to unzip his pants and you squeak.

“Please put your shirt back on.”

“what? you want it quick?” He chuckles, still unable to grasp that this isn’t what you’re here for. Mortification sweeps through you as he steps forward and tugs on one of your hands until you’re stumbling into his space. “aight’, bend over. my bro’s gonna come knockin in about five minutes. if i'm here, i'm dust.”

Perfect. He’s in the perfect position. You use your other hand to quickly pull a set of handcuffs out of your pants, and deftly click them shut over Sans’ wrists. He seems surprised by the swiftness of your movements, but it quickly devolves into deep amusement. His laugh rumbles deep and you can feel the vibrations sink into your own chest.

You step back, and give him a quick once over. 

“Good. Now you’ve gotta come with me if you want those off.” You say sternly.

Sans laughs some more.

“kinky. i thought you told me to lead the way, kid?”

He can’t really be this oblivious can he? Your irritation has boiled over now, and it’s burning your tongue enough that you have to say something.

“Your brother hired me to get you to the show in time, dumbass.”

Sans still isn’t taking you seriously, and continues to leer at you with those blazing eyes of his. It pisses you off.

“i ain’t really into role playing, but you’ve got nice tits, so whatever.”

All right, that’s it. You wish you had more patience. You really do, but you think the heavens will forgive you if you lose it just a bit with this one. You tug on the cuffs, making sure they’re steady. Thank god for magic dampeners. This moron can’t escape with these blocking his shortcuts.

“oooh. like it rough, don’t ya?”

Ah there goes your patience, flown out the window on the wings of Sans’ dignity. And with it, follows one of those bad-taste jokes you so love.

“Your dad had the same opinion. Now let’s get a move on, Sansy. You’re gonna be late.” 

Something about what you said makes him freeze in place, the lights in his eyes shrink to the size of dimes and he looks all-in-all discomfited. So, he finally learned that you’re for real. 

He follows your direction without much protest after that, and his only word of complaint is when you march him into the lobby. Still shirtless and with his pants undone. 

Papyrus had warned you that letting your guard down even once could mean an escaped Sans. You take his words to heart, and while you may have felt some pity for him, he’s all but managed to squash that with his earlier display of flirtatious abandon.

You duck his head into a waiting cab, a bit more roughly than intended.

“ouch there kid. watch it, would ya?”

You settle in next to him, and grant him some mercy by placing your trench coat around his shoulders.

“I’m watching and I’m not liking what I see.” You say, before shutting up for the rest of the ride to the venue.

Papyrus owes you a bonus for this shitshow.

* * *

 

Your far too tall and scarred employer does agree with paying a bonus, as soon as he lays eyes on the half-naked package you retrieved, sliding a stack of hundreds over with a weary sigh. 

"I DO NOT SAY THESE THINGS LIGHTLY, BUT GOOD JOB", Papyrus takes Sans from your hands, who's rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had been. He turns to his brother, uncaring for the fact you're still there, and slaps an open hand on the back of his skull. "GO GET DRESSED, YOU PIECE OF SHIT. YOU HAVE A FULL VENUE TONIGHT, AND I WILL RIP YOUR SPINE OUT MYSELF IF THEY START ASKING FOR THEIR MONEY BACK."

You wince at the sheer volume of Papyrus' voice, almost enough to knock you out of counting the money in your hands.

Sans throws his hands up, stalks off towards the door marked with his stage name, grumbling.

"never woulda thought you'd stoop this fuckin' low, bro", he grunts in Papyrus' general direction before disappearing into the backroom, slamming the door behind him. 

Papyrus looks about ready to follow him, maybe scream a little more. Instead, he heaves another long sigh, pinching the bone above his nose cavity. You are done counting the payment — double than you make in a month of regular odd-jobs, and that's if you're particularly lucky —, and you're ready to take your leave when Papyrus raises his free hand, asking for a moment. 

"THANK YOU, AND I APOLOGIZE FOR MY BROTHER. I DOUBT YOU FOUND HIM IN THAT STATE OF UNDRESS." 

You shrug. "Someone's oughta tell him that fucking his stalkers is probably not the best way to get rid of them, unless he's really shit in bed."

"I AM GOING TO ASK YOU DO NOT MAKE ANY MORE COMMENTS ON MY BROTHER'S ABILITIES IN THE BEDROOM, OR LACK THEREOF", Papyrus visibly cringes. "NEVERTHELESS. I WANTED TO OFFER YOU A TABLE AT TONIGHT'S SHOW, WITH ALL DRINKS PAID BY US, AS AN APOLOGY."

You consider the offer for a minute. It's not like you hadn’t heard of his brother before Papyrus came to you earlier that night. Red the Skeleton made big in the city half a decade ago, one of the most prominent, and allegedly best, monster artists to ever come out of this shithole. 

You heard his songs on the radio before, not many because the whole soft-and-suffering jazz he sings isn't quite your style, and had never been anywhere he performed at because it's famously expensive as all hell and, again, not really your style.

But the offer of free booze all night long is very charming. Maybe it would purge from your mind's eye the peek you'd got under his clothes.

"Sure", you tell Papyrus. "I ain't got anywhere else to be tonight."

* * *

 

In retrospect, you should have known this place would make you all kinds of uncomfortable.

It's full to the brim, for one. And you're fairly sure there's some shady business being had under the dim lights above the round tables full of nicely dressed "gentlemen", deals being traded along with poker chips and glasses of expensive wine while everyone waits for the show to begin.

You, for once, decide to turn off the inner investigator for the moment, and drown the parts of you that are protesting with the fourth glass of the best whiskey you could find at the bar. 

The audience lights go down, and the buzz of talk dies down as if on cue. Bright yellow lights go off above the stage, as a piano plays the first bars of a song and the heavy red curtains part.

Sans stands alone in the middle of the stage. He's, thankfully, dressed — in his signature deep red suit, a stark black dress shirt and cravat underneath, and a red hat pulled over his skull to obscure most of his face, except for the deep scarlet eyelights peeking from the shadow. The gold canine gleams under the stage lights, and heavy smoke rolls off the polished ground, cascading down to audience level.

Piano gives way to the slow, steady beat of a drum, and the brass ressounds as Red begins singing, stroking the microphone stand lovingly. 

" _outta the tree of life i just picked me a plum_ ", his deep voice seemed to have dropped even lower, velvety smooth. " _ya came along an' everythin' started'in to hum._ "

He runs two fingers across the rim of his hat, moving it out of his face just an inch. " _still it's a pretty good bet, the best is yet to come._ "

You're honestly a bit impressed, and a little more understanding of why he's got such a gigantic ego. The way he fills the stage has nothing to do with either his actual size of that, he's barely moved from his spot behind the stand, only tapping a foot to the soft beat, but he has the whole audience wrapped around one boney finger.

" _best is yet to come, an' babe won't that be fine_ ", his smile widens, eye sockets narrow. " _ya think ya seen the sun, but ya ain't seen it shine._ "

He holds the mic stand as one would hold a lover, dip it slightly. After each verse, the band grows sharper, louder. " _a wait til the warm up's under way. wait til our lips have met, and wait til ya see that sunshine day. ya ain't seen nothin' yet._ "

" _the best is yet to come, an' babe won't that be fine_ ", the band crests to a peak, and Sans swings to the rhythm, plucking the microphone from its stand to walk down the stage, each step precise yet with an odd sort of fluidity overall displaced in his large body. " _best is yet to come, come the day yer mine._ "

" _come the day yer mine, i'm gonna teach ya to fly_ ", his voice rises too, to meet the brasses, head thrown back as if in reverence. " _we've only tasted the wine, we're gon' drain the cup dry._ "

Sans continues stalking the front of the stage, eyelights scanning the audience slow, almost lazily. " _wait til yer charms are ripe for these arms to surround. ya think ya flown before, but babe ya ain't left the ground._ "

" _a wait til yer locked in my embrace_ ", he begins making his way towards the center again, turning his back to the audience and only looking at them from over his shoulder, one eye closed. " _wait til i draw ya near, and wait til ya see that sunshine place. ain't nothin' like it here._ "

He puts the microphone back, snapping his fingers to the beat. It prompts the audience to follow, entranced by him. Even you feel like you're locked in a daze, tapping your fingers to the side of your glass in the rhythm.

" _the best is yet to come, and babe won't that be fine. the best is yet to come, come the day yer mine_ ", he croons into the mic, lowering his voice to a bedside-whisper, and pulling his hat over his eyes. 

" _come the day yer mine, and babe yer gon' be mine._ "

His voice dies down, and so does the spell he's apparently put on you. You hadn't even taken a sip from your glass since he showed up, how fucking great. 

* * *

 

“Another one, Sansy!”

“Come on Red, encore ya big lug!”

You’re impressed. You really are, but there’s a small stack of case files piled up on your desk and you’ve got a few more leads to chase. The glorified babysitting job is over, and you’d gotten free booze. Granted, you’d also been propositioned by a skeleton, but overall you’d count this as a win.

You decide to cut out a bit early, despite the cries that ring out for a repeat performance. All the people look like they’re having fun, even though you’re pretty sure you just overheard one of them selling illegal opium to a group of very interested mafiosos.

It’s not like you’re a copper, but a combination of your past history and general sense of morality makes this whole shebang taste a bit grimy in your mouth. You want out of here, so you get out. You take one last gulp of whiskey for good measure, and quietly excuse yourself from the table.

Thankfully it’s dark, so your departure doesn’t draw any attention whatsoever. You don’t notice Papyrus’ blazing eyes swivel in your direction as your hat bobs past the crowd.

You don’t notice much at all, still stuck in a haze of drunken enchantment. It’s a little disconcerting, but you manage to squeeze past all the suits, and stumble out into the misty night.

The air is heavy with the scent of petrichor, and you find it refreshing as water drops coalesce on the brim of your hat and you breath mingles with the cold.

This part of the city is well-lit, teeming with folks from all walks of life, simply looking for a good time. You hope they find it.

* * *

 

Missing: Sally Bergamot (AKA Swingin’ Sally, local singer)

Missing: Shyren (local singer)

Missing: Aaron Muscles (local big brass player)

You peruse the files once more, your headache not making your thoughts any quicker to be sure. You would die for a coffee just about now.

"Heya, boss!" Here comes your saviour angel, Lord bless him. MK comes rushing through the door, a cardboard tray holding two red mugs balanced on his tail.

You smile at him, even if his questionable choice in terms of endearment to you are honestly a bit… Irritating. But he's a sweet kid, his mother had introduced you to the apartment complex when you first moved in. Real nice lady that one. You'd taken him under your wing, and he's been helping you out ever since. Mostly by bringing you coffee and answering whatever he can about the differences between monster and human subcultures. 

Boring, but a far better fate than most monster kids get in these parts, honestly.

"Up early, MK?" You greet him. 

He gives a vigorous nod, giving a worried glance back at the tray after doing so. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the tray is still undisturbed.

He’s... Enthusiastic. A trait that had carried him right through your kitchen door... Seriously, right through it... A few times. By the third time, you’d given up and merely pasted over the hole with some cardboard and tape.

Still, you appreciate his company and he makes a damn good cup of coffee. Rich and bitter, with just a bit of cream to cut the edge. 

“Thank god, MK. You’re a blessing, I swear.” You cheer, swiveling in your chair to accept the steaming cup of mana. You note with amusement that he’s served it in one of the less abused mugs today. This one only has a few chips on the handle where his teeth had once clamped on when he was still figuring out the best way to handle a mug of hot coffee.

The kid sure has grown up a lot under your watch, and you won’t admit it out loud, but there’s a small spark of pride in you for him. The warmth of the drink seeps deep into your fingers as you cradle the cup close, tendrils of steam rising up to soothe the dull headache you’ve had since getting up.

All that whiskey hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.

He beams with pride as he carefully places the tray on the small side table by your desk. His golden scales shine in the dim light of the street lamp drifting in through your curtains, and you think he’s awfully cheerful today. Suspiciously so.

“Alright kiddo, what’s got you grinning so big?”

He rocks back and forth on his feet, his tail lashing out from under his brown sweater as he peers up at you.

“Bigger Boss stopped by earlier while you were napping! He wanted to talk, but I told him you were busy.”

The title has you on edge... Memories of sharp red eyes and a pride that demanded to be fed. Ah... Bigger Boss... Papyrus had come around. You’re not sorry you missed him. As a client, he’s been nothing but polite and proper, but his jobs are less than favorable.

He’d agreed to the bonus so easily, you wonder if you’d actually taken advantage of him and not the other way around. It’s not him that’s got you filled with trepidation. It’s the job he’s most likely wanting you to take up again.

“Did he say what he wanted to talk about?” You venture.

MK frowns in contemplation, before shaking his head. 

“Not really. He was super cryptic, but if I were to guess…”

You smile broadly, lifting up your mug in his direction. You lean back in your old, squeaky chair and wait.

“Tell me how you’re arriving to your guess, kiddo.”

“His first job for you was finding his missing brother. He had the same look he had the first time he came by? Sort of uh, embarrassed? Tried to cover it up with some tough language but uhh, he had some tells.”

“What sort of tells?”

“Ummm...shifty eyes, you know? The kind when you’re trying to make up a good story and have to take some time to think. He was sort of hunched over too. “

“Anything else?”

“Red has another show coming up.”

“So your guess is…”

“Another Red retrieval mission!” MK finishes with a joyous head bob, his lashing tail barely missing the tray on the table behind him.

“Good deduction. Looks like you’ll make a fine assistant yet. What’s the logical answer to his request?”

“You…” MK narrows his eyes as he takes in your expression. The set of your jaw and the sharpness of your smile tells him enough. “You won’t take the job again. You don’t think it’s worth your time? Did I get it right?”

Your smile merely softens and you offer him a chocolate from your secret stash. Kid’s fun, but he’s getting really good at reading you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ED: This is my loving offering towards convincing the world at large that Red was made for the stage and if you think he can't sing you're wrong and I'll commit a violence.


	2. The Case of Incidental Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the ditty for tonight is: 
> 
> **Nice Work if You Can Get It**  
>  [ [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/1mxW31WHnp0Rq1RQrhMPDj?si=cctQboR6QM-_gL_7bPQfTQ) || [YouTube](https://youtu.be/U1v2DDKhWuE) ]

His distinct voice carries through the thin wood-cardboard-mess of the door, and the headache you thought was gone returns with vengeance. Maybe you weren’t hung over. You’re just naturally allergic to the exact pitch of his voice is all.

Papyrus keeps alternating between shouting your name and loudly pounding on the wood bits on the door. You rub at your eyes, groggily rolling out of bed — an empty bottle of _something_ clinks on the ground when it falls off from somewhere within your comforter. You really need to clean up sometime, before your bedroom really turns into a pigsty.

Throughout your journey from bed, to the bathroom for the purposes of splashing some water in your sleep-rumpled face and getting your slippers because the floor is _cold as fuck_ , to the living room door, Papyrus gets increasingly louder. Also closer to breaking the whole thing down.

When you throw the door open he comes very close to slamming his hand on your face. Thankfully you have good reflexes, and tall, dark and scary out there apparently has very good control of his motor function, as his fist stops an inch from where your head was before you ducked out of the way.

“G’morning, Papyrus”, your voice is still thick with sleep and the rapidly approaching migraine that will surely last for the rest of the week, if you’re lucky. “How didja get up here?”

The skeleton looks about ready to trample you to get inside, so you step to the side. The fact he has to duck his head to do it is funnier to you than it has any business being.

“YOU DO KNOW YOU ARE RUNNING A PRETTY SHODDY BUSINESS, DON’T YOU? I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO GET IN CONTACT WITH YOU FOR THE LAST WEEK!”

“I know”, you press both your temples, kicking the door closed. “I’m very flattered for the preference, but I thought I told you it would be a one-time deal.”

“YES, YOU DID. MAY I TAKE A SEAT?”

You gesture towards the dilapidated chair in front of your equally worn desk, making your way around while wistfully thinking about MK’s coffee. “Be my guest.”

“THANK YOU”, he kinda looks like a spider, with his knees almost to his shoulders as he sits on the comparably very small chair, hands folded on his lap.

"So", you take your seat, leaning on the table with both elbows. "We agreed it was an one time job."

"YES, BUT — LOOK. I WILL BE SINCERE WITH YOU", Papyrus sighs and, in a surprising turn of events, actually uses a tolerable indoor voice. "My Brother Is Very Difficult. I Do Not Have The Means Nor The Time To Track Him Down Myself Before Every Show, SINCE AS HIS AGENT I HAVE _OTHER_ DUTIES, AND… I Have Yet To Find Someone As Competent As Yourself."

"Well, thank you. I will still have to sa—"

"I AM WILLING TO PAY DOUBLE WHAT I DID LAST TIME", Papyrus swiftly cuts you off.

"—aaaay that I'm going to think about it."

"IN FACT, I AM WILLING TO PAY MORE ON TOP OF THAT SHOULD HE ACT IN ANY WAY DISRESPECTFUL TOWARDS YOU. IT COMES STRAIGHT FROM _HIS_ CUT OF THE PROFIT, IF THAT MAKES YOU FEEL MORE VINDICATED."

"It… Kinda does", you rub at your temples again. "Look, Papyrus. Since you were honest with me, I'll do the same for you, okay?"

"I APPRECIATE IT."

"Alright, so — I don't really wanna be a babysitter. Guy's twice my size and probably older than me, he should be able to come to work on time,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose when the memories your first encounter are pulled forth with startling clarity. “Plus, he knows what my deal is, so I can’t pull the same stunt on him twice. Odds aren’t exactly stacking up in my favor here. I’ve also got...uh other side projects that needed attention.”

“I UNDERSTAND. I WISH THERE WAS A WAY I COULD ASSURE YOU THAT YOUR TIME WOULDN’T BE WASTED AS A GLORIFIED BABYSITTER, HOWEVER THE FACT OF THE MATTER IS THAT OUT OF EVERYONE I’VE HIRED, YOU HAVE LOCATED AND RETRIEVED HIM THE QUICKEST.”

You're not exactly buying it. "Your brother goes to the same bar, and the same three expensive hotels, can't be too hard to find after you have that figured out."

"IT ISN'T EXACTLY WHAT I'M PAYING FOR WHEN EVERY OTHER PRIVATE EYE AND DETECTIVE CALLS _ME_ TO DO THE ACTUAL RETRIEVAL", Papyrus crosses his arms with a huff.

"AT ANY RATE! I UNDERSTAND YOUR HESITATION AND, BELIEVE ME, I WOULD NOT TAKE SUCH JOB IN YOUR POSITION. I WOULD STILL LIKE TO EMPLOY YOUR SERVICES AGAIN, SHOULD YOU BE WILLING, AND I AM FULLY PREPARED TO COMPLY WITH ANY REQUEST YOU MIGHT HAVE AS TO HOW MUCH I SHOULD PAY YOU FOR IT."

You tap your fingers on the desk. Papyrus sounds pretty desperate, all right. From the papers, and MK's reports, you are well aware that Red has another show coming this coming Friday, and being that it's three days from now, he must be getting real antsy.

"I'll think about it, big fella", is all you can really offer now. "When do you need an answer?"

"THURSDAY."

Yeesh, yeah. You nod — you're probably going to call him tomorrow to say you're not taking it anyway, all you want is that he isn't _in_ your apartment when you tell him no.

Papyrus gathers himself, and stands up. "I WILL SEE MYSELF OUT, THEN. I DO HOPE YOU WILL TRULY THINK ABOUT MY OFFER."

"Sure will."

Halfway to the door (which is just about two steps on those long spindly legs), Papyrus turns around.

"ONE MORE THING."

"Yes?"

"YOU MIGHT WANT TO CONSIDER FINDING A NEW LANDLORD. THE CURRENT ONE IS VERY EASILY BRIBED, AND THAT IS NOT A GOOD QUALITY FOR THAT JOB POSITION", he tips his hat towards you. "GOOD DAY, MA'AM."

The door gives a papery slam as it closes in his wake, and you find your mouth half curling into a smile of unexpected gratitude. You’ve long since known what sort of man your landlord is, but it’s nice to know someone sort of cares.

* * *

 

“She was here last Friday night see, all dolled up and made up and dressed up, ya see...sang her pretty songs, gave me a smile, and left after her set.”

The alto saxophonist says all this in a stream of fluid speech so fast, you have a hard time writing everything in your worn out notepad. You make a show of nodding your head and humming out acknowledgements, but your mind is already working to try and piece together the clues.

A missing Madjick, going by the stage name Magic Maisy, left this small lounge Friday night. Fellow musicians hadn’t noticed anything odd, save for the fact that she didn’t stick around for her usual complimentary dinner.

“I mean, you’re sure there wasn’t anything off about her? Anything at all could help.” You try once more, tapping the end of your pen in consternation as the clues don’t quite build up to anything.

The man looks worried for a second, dark brows knitting over his concentrated expression. “Ah, well I _do_ remember her mentioning that she had a few fans that were _overly eager_ if ya know what I mean, and that they weren’t taking no for an answer. Not sure if that helps at all, we artists have to deal with those types fairly often. Thanks for lookin’ into this Miss, not many folks about here care about us small-time artists.”

You frown to yourself, whomever is doing these kidnappings, they’re doing a damn good job of hiding it. You don’t think you got anything interesting from this man, but you smile at him anyway, “Just doing my job sir, thank you for the info, and if you think of anything else, here’s my address. Just show up or send a letter.” You hand him your card, and head on your way.

Information is scarce, and difficult to come by. Your notes are downright shameful, you think while flipping through them on the path home, if someone else were giving you these as part of an investigation, you would cuss them all the way out of the goddamned door.

Almost all the missing people were monsters, barring one or two humans. All Musicians, disappearing in the dead of the night, usually no clues pointing to any involvement with the mafia besides what you'd expect — monsters were, by and large, supposed to pay respects and taxes to the King, who also had his hands deep in the shady businesses carried out by his "subjects".

Life would probably be easier if human politicians were so open about _their_ shady business as the monster King is, but that's a line of thought you'd rather not dwell on.

It's a long walk home, and the overcast sky provides little illumination for you to continue reviewing your notes without straining your eyes, forcing you to shove the entire notepad in your breast pocket.

You feel that familiar feeling of disappointment and old anger curl heavy in your gut. It writhes and gnaws until you have the urge to either scream or run. Or both. You could do both, but then chance landing yourself in one of those horrendous asylums just outside the city.

You heave a deep breath, and while you’re unhealthy coping says “go and get a beer”, your logic tugs you in the opposite direction of your favorite bar.

After stopping for some stuff at your apartment, you head back out. You enter grim-faced into the rundown boxing gym a few blocks down, hoisting a carpet bag filled with hand-wraps and old clothes you don’t mind getting bloody.

* * *

You relish in the impact, in the force of your blows on the weighted bag in front of you. Your gloves are heavy and padded, but you still feel the vibrations of your jabs and crosses as you repeat your 1,2 maneuvers.

Sweat burns as it drips down your face and into your eyes, but you merely toss your head to the side to shake it away. Your lungs are straining and your arms are aching, but you don’t stop.

Jab, Cross, jab, cross, jab-

“Cool it, girly. You’ve already destroyed one bag. This one ain’t gonna last if you keep going like that.”

You’re interrupted by the nasally voice from behind you, the smell of sea brine filling your nose past the smell of stale sweat. You automatically pull back your gloves up towards your face, and drop your shoulder while pivoting on the balls of your feet, barely in time to dodge Aaron’s loose hook.

You leap back on the mat, bumping against the bag behind you as you block a flurry of punches.

You feel a grin tug at your mouth as his horsey face appears and reappears from behind his frenzied movements, his eyes glinting in approval as you wind up your right arm, drawing it back and letting it rocket out towards his torso.

He dodges, but you reach him with an arcing over-handed punch you deliver with your left. He barely blocks it, your glove grazing his shoulder and you laugh victoriously when lets out a small _oomph._

Only for that to be cut off prematurely when he pulls backwards slightly, and slaps his tail on the mat to rocket himself forwards. It catches you off guard, and you find yourself stumbling backwards to avoid him. Not fast enough. He lands a hit on your chin.

You feel a burst of pain and you see stars for all of 3 seconds, before you collect yourself and wipe the blood from your lip.

“Dirty trick, Gloves. Fuck you.” You spit out, letting your blood splatter nastily on his mat.

“The street’s full of dirty tricks, girly.” He frowns at the puddle of bloody saliva. “You’re cleaning that up.”

“Only thing I’ll be cleaning up is your dust off my clothes.” You mutter out, realigning your right foot behind you so that your balance is back to center. You bring your gloves back up to you chin, breathing heavy but ready for another fight.

Gloves takes it in stride, but after a few misses on your part, shifts from his fighting stance and crosses his arms over his chest. His dark fur glistens with sweat and you feel that same disappointment from before well up inside you.

“You need to work on your rhythm. You’re too riled up. You’re not thinking straight. What happened?”

You breathe in short puffs, before inhaling some musty air in a long drawn out manner before letting it all escape in a big show of frustration.

Your stony expression tells him all he needs to know. His dark eyes become castdown, his wry smile falling into a frown of understanding.

“No leads again. No wonder you’re upset.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, before pulling yourself back together. He can see it clearly, the way you pull at the aching pieces of your Justice and Integrity and use them to build yourself a little of Hope. Good for you. You’re a fighter still.

“I made you a promise, Aaron. I intend to keep it.” You say with quiet resolve.

He grins back at you, tossing his head to shake his mane out of his eyes so he can fully meet your gaze.

“I know you do. That’s why I need to make sure your punches aren’t shit. But I know this whole…” He waves his hands over his head, unsure how to phrase it. “This whole situation is personal for you too. You should… Maybe talk to someone. You know, so your mental punches can be just as sharp as your real ones, tough girl.”

“Still trying to point me towards your therapist cousin? I think one Aaron is enough right now.”

He gives a horsey laugh.

“We’re all Aaron.”

Your scowl softens into a smile, and you relax your stance.

“Why _are_ you all Aaron?”

“Tradition mostly. Helps us feel connected. But we get to pick our middle names, most of us like choosing stuff that shows what we do.”

“Oh… That’s why you’re Aaron Gloves.”

“Hell yeah.”

“So… Your brother? Aaron Muscles?” You venture carefully, tapping your gloves against each other. The sorrow is still fresh. It’s only been two months since Muscles had gone missing. Two months since Gloves had shown up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, sorrow and loss bowing his huge frame as he asked for your help.

Gloves seems to be in a better mood today. The question doesn’t make him taciturn. Instead fondness creeps into his expression, and he shrugs.

"Haha… Little bro used to be a weightlifter. Til one bad day ruined his shoulder and he couldn’t do it anymore. He nearly Fell Down after that, but he picked up the horn… And he kept looking for bigger brass until he got lost in the music.”

He pulls off one of his namesakes, flexing his wrapped hand. "Told us that it made 'im feel even stronger than before. You know, takes a lot out of someone to play the bigger brasses, they are heavy and harder to maneuver, not a lotta folks attempt 'em."

You lay back on the ropes, supported by the elbows as Aaron walks — rather, sorta floats across the improvised boxing ring, his tail pushing off the air a few inches above the ground to propel him forwards — to the corner where a radio is propped up on a high chair, turns the knob on the front to turn it on.

The familiar voice of Red blooms from the radio system, and Aaron smile widens.

"— _no guarantee that time won't erase his name_ ", his voice sounds hissier than in person, you realize, due to the radio itself. Aaron looks down at it for a little longer, sighing. " _the fact is, the only work that really brings enjoyment, 's the kind that's for girl an' boy meant._ "

"Ya know what they say 'bout Red's music, girly?" Aaron crosses his arms, tapping the fingers on his gloveless hands on a bulging bicep.

" _fall in love and ya won't regret it._ "

"That it's sappy as all hell?"

He laughs, shakes his head. "That too, I guess."

" _that's the best work o' all, if ya can get it_."

"Nah, they say that ya gotta go to a Red show with open eyes an' open heart", he looks wistful, distant. "'Cause ya just might meet the love of your life, while he's makin' love to the mic."

That's an overall disturbing mental image, nice turn of phrase notwithstanding. You hum, in what you hope is a good enough simulacrum of agreement.

"My lil' brother met his girlfriend there. Sweet gal, pretty mezzo-soprano voice, she was workin' as one of the backup singers, he was playin' the tuba. They hit it off backstage, real sweet story", Aaron sighs, pulls the glove back on. "A shame it had to happen to her too, an' just when he had finally convinced her to start singin' alone."

Your throat tightens, painfully. "That's Shyren, right?"

"— _nice work if ya can get it, and ya can get it if ya try!_ "

“That’s right. Shyren.” Gloves says quietly, before tapping his gloves together and shaking the melancholy from his mane with an invigorated whinny.

“Now, enough sentimentality. Change out your gloves for some strike pads, and we’ll work on your defense.”

* * *

Thoroughly beaten, and with the kind of pleasant ache going through your body that you only get from boxing, you go home. It's late afternoon, with the sun setting lazily behind clouds that hold a promise of rain later in the night. All in all, it's a drab little day — which suits your mood just fine.

You walk through the front gates of your squarely lower-middle class apartment building, twirling the twin set of keys for yours and MK's mailboxes in a finger. They are little steel boxes, mounted on the wall underneath the stairs leading up to the first floor, just behind and to the left of the landlord's — more often than not, empty — table.

You check the mail and note with a pang of worry that there’s another “Rent Due” notice, along with a hastily written note in your landlord’s sloppy scrawl.

“Protection fee was raised. Due next week.”

“Fuck.” You breathe out, another worry piled up on the already teetering pile of other shit you have to think about. You still have a tidy sum left over from the babysitting job. What little you had spent had been on a new sweater for MK and groceries for the both of you. You pick the identical notices off of MK's mailbox, along with a letter from his school, and head on upstairs.

Once sat on your desk, in your admittedly barebones apartment/office, you pull out from the drawer an old calculator, and put yourself to crunch down the numbers against the very tidy accounting book you keep.

Two hours later, you're distraught.

The protection fee _doubled_ . That's half your remaining money _right there_ , considering you couldn't escape the additional business fee regardless of your office being _in_ your house. The rent also went up a notch from last month, probably because of the new law passed a couple weeks ago regarding land ownership fees — those, you have a distinct feeling are a thinly veiled attempt to make it so the monsters in monster-human neighborhoods are forced to flee further into the suburbs, unable to pay the new values.

The cherry on the metaphorical cake, however, is the letter from MK's school. His mother had been wise enough to come live right at the edge of a pretty good school district, making it so MK goes to the best high school she could afford. That shows with the letter sitting in front of you — he has been selected, due to outstanding performance and his amazing growth in the debate team, to represent his school in the upcoming national event, three states over. This is just the thing he needs to almost guarantee entrance in any university he wishes to go, regardless of being a monster. In fact, him _being_ one and attending would be a great hallmark to the ongoing monster rights movements, showing off their talented youth in a position of prestige.

… But you'll have to pay for it. And the sum total isn't cheap. Even if you could cut corners, it would still be more than you currently have, leaving no money at all for groceries for the rest of the month, until you found another paying gig.

You let your head fall on the table with a solid _thunk_. If only you hadn't given up — no, you can't think like that. Your sense of justice has long since splintered, the remaining bits occasionally prodding you to do what is right in the most unenthusiastic of ways. But you hadn't given up shit, you couldn't deal with the alternative to any of the decisions that led you into running this office out of your home. If you start going there you feel like your soul might rip right down the middle.

… If only Gal was still here.

With a heavy sigh, you push away from the table and stalk to the door. You need to clear your head, think about your options, before you make any rash decisions. You bound down the stairs two steps at a time, feeling your pulse beat with all the force of a drum underneath your ear.

Outside, the cold, humid night air hits your face with the sobering effect of a punch to the gut.

Huh, sobering. You could have a drink — there’s a bar just around the corner, little hole-in-the-wall kinda place, it must be open now.

… You can’t. For one because you came down to _think_ , for God’s sake, and also because you hadn’t taken the time to actually change out of your slightly bloodstained, worn boxing clothes. You rub your hands over your face, groaning loudly into them as you stop, mid-way down the street, and turn around to go back towards the apartment building. Could today get any fucking worse?

The humid air is suddenly replaced with a cloud of thick, dark smoke smelling faintly of petrichor. It’s an odd combination, but even more odd is the sudden thwap that assaults your bum.

“nice pair of mitts. mind havin’ mine all over your ass?”

The answer is yes, apparently.

The voice is a horribly unwelcome drawl, and suddenly all the unpleasantness of a few days ago writhes through your gut, and you whirl around through the smoke and manage to grab some of Sans’s pretty silk shirt. You pull him down to your level, craning your neck to level a glare at him.

“As a matter of fact, I do, asshole.”

To your satisfaction, he actually looks perturbed. His cigar is halfway falling out of his frozen grin. His mouth is strangely open, and you can see a fair bit of a golden fang winking out from underneath the wide brim of his hat.

His eyes are burning in their sockets and that pisses you off more.

“woah. woah. didn’t recognize you, sweetheart.”

You don’t bother to give him a response. Instead, you feel a little brave, and pluck his cigar straight from his mouth and inhale straight from it. You let the heated smoke build up in your mouth, before releasing it all in one big puff into his startled face.

You release him, and continue walking back, giving him the old one finger salute.

* * *

Thursday morning.

You really are doing this. You thought, and thought, and paced outside until you saw some seriously sketchy dudes making the turn off of the bar’s corner, and decided that getting shanked while distracted wasn’t worth the fresh air, then you paced a little more up at your apartment until you decided it wasn’t worth it opening yet another hole in your old as balls carpet. You ought to have at least a _little_ consideration about the state of your de facto office.

The telephone rings once.

You’re draped over your desk, one elbow propped up and your head buried on its crook, hand buried in your hair. No cursing, at least not aloud, because he can pick up the phone anytime.

It rings twice.

The image of Sans, that fucking _asshole_ , burnt itself in your head. No amount of pacing helped you get rid of it, and you didn’t want to risk running into him again while you went to get something that certainly would.

It stops ringing.

“PAPYRUS SPEAKING”, God he’s even louder over the phone.

You really _are_ doing this.

“I’m taking the job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red’s pick up lines ain’t as smooth as that jammin’ baritone of his. Let’s show him a bad time.


End file.
